


A Figure in the Study

by Backbiter222



Category: Original Work
Genre: A Figure in the Study, Blood, Cereal, Eating, Gen, House - Freeform, Lightning - Freeform, Lights, Murder, Rain, Short Story, Storm - Freeform, Thunder - Freeform, Writing, figure, study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backbiter222/pseuds/Backbiter222
Summary: The rain was pouring from the sky, obliterating everything, save for one Figure walking through it. Walking to a house. Walking to murder and kill.





	A Figure in the Study

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a story years ago and it stank. So now I have rewrote it to this story. I feel that there has been a definite improvement. Hope you enjoy it.

          The night was dark and the day was yet to come. It would not arrive for hours now, its healing rays of light would not yet shine. And they would never again shine for some.

          It was raining. It was pouring. The rain was coming down fast, fast and hard. There was no one out on the streets. Not at this hour or with this rain.

          It was storming, too. Thunder, louder than any before, boomed across the night sky. The lightning that followed, had it touched a tree or a house, would have destroyed it within a second.

          To say this storm was just a storm would have been to say a hurricane was just breeze.

          There was now one person out on the street. Just one.

          The street He was on was dark. There was no light to be found, save for one house. The second window on the second floor, a study belonging to a man, a father, a husband, was glowing with candlelight. Had the man sitting inside the study, writing what he was writing, looked out, he would have seen the person on the street. And had he looked, had he seen the person, he would have noticed something wrong about them.

          The trees on the street were shaking. Blowing and rustling so hard that pieces broke off and were blown away. Trash and toys, mailboxes and tree houses, all were bashed and broken and blown away. Everything not destroyed or lost was soaked. Everything was covered in that rain pouring relentlessly form the sky.

          Looking at all of this destruction, your eyes could only be drawn back to the person walking through the storm. The person whose long, black robe did not move, whose hood did not fall from His head. The person whose clothes were not wet. The person that seemed to repel all wind, all water, and all debris. The person who was most assuredly not a person at all.

          This Creature, this Figure, walked to the house with the light on in the upstairs study. But if the man in the study, if anyone, had looked, they would have seen that the Figure was not walking. He made no footprints, did not disturb the water flowing on the ground in any way. It was as if He glided over it.

          There were three levels in the house the Figure was moving to. The basement, the ground floor, and the second level with the lit study. There were four people in the house this night. The man, husband and father, his wife, and his two daughters. Soon there would be five.

          The Figure glided to the porch of the house with the lit study. There were three stairs and He glided up them without touching. Moving past the bench to his left, He extended His hand toward the gold doorknob on the pale blue door.

          As the Figure was approaching the door, a new light was turned on in the house. One of the daughters of the man writing in his study had woken from her sleep and crept downstairs to find food to eat.

          As the Figure opened the door and glided into the house, had anyone been looking, had the daughter or the man seen, they would have noticed a change come about the figure. That It seemed to be pleased. That if It had a mouth, if It had a face, It would be smiling. Grinning a grin so wide it would have split open Its face. The fun was about to begin.

          The girl was sitting at the table in the center of the kitchen. She had in front of her a bowl of cereal. In her hand was a gallon of milk she would never pour. She barely had time to scream, to drop the milk, to breath her last breath, before the Figure was upon her.

          Her screams echoed throughout the house.

          The first to hear her desperate calls was the dog. A loyal, long-haired mutt, leaped towards the Figure in vain, trying to save his mistress. At the last moment, the dog’s eyes widened as he realized what the Figure was. He curved in the air, trying to land anywhere but near the Figure. He was still barking, still winning, as the figure bit into him.

          When the mother came flying down the stairs, her other daughter behind her, the first thing she saw was a puddle of white. The broken milk gallon. As her eyes traveled farther, she watched as the milk slowly turned pink, then red. Her eyes finally rested on the body of her other daughter, the flesh ripped from the bone, the face sunken and pale, her hand still wrapped around a spoon next to a bowl of cereal she would never taste.

          The screams of the mother and the sister were music to what may have been the ears of the Figure. It rose from the body of the dog It was eating, leaving the open belly and the steaming organs for later. It stepped on the dog, making contact with something beneath Its feet for the first time that night.

          The sharp crack of the bones was enough to shut the mother up.

          Throughout all of this, the husband, the father, still sat in his lit study, writing. He had no idea how soon he would lose both of those titles. Husband. Father. The one was already half gone.

          The mother’s screams rose and fell as she beheld the sight before her eyes, her only other child being torn limb from limb. He voice fell and she slumped to the floor, grief filling every pore.

          The rain continued to pour, intensifying its might and power. It almost managed to drown out the sounds of muscles and bones, ligaments and tissue being ripped and shredded.

          Soon another corpse, of what was left of it, joined its sister on the ground.

          The Figure advanced again, making Its was to the mother, who had backed herself against the wall and become deathly silent.

          Soon her deathly silence became not a choice, but an obligation as she joined her daughters.

          The Figure made His way up the stairs, now once again gliding up them, not touching anything. His long, black robes, kept so dry from the rain outside, the rain that was now pouring so hard it was beginning to crack the roof, were now soaked in the blood of His victims. The blood of the wife and children of the man we are about to see.

          The Figure made His way down to hall to the study where the man sat writing. He had not gotten up when he heard the Figure enter the house. Not when he heard his first daughter die. Or the dog. Or his other daughter. Or his wife.

          It should come as no surprise that he did not get up when the Figure entered the study.

          The Figure’s feet once again touched the floor when He entered the study. He left bloody footprints on the carpet.

          The rain intensified and the thunder boomed so loud that one could not hear one's own thoughts.

          The man continued to write.

          The Figure drew forth from his bloodstained robe a gun. A normal, mundane weapon. Not a weapon like the fangs and claws and brute strength that He had used on the man’s family below.  

          The Figure raised the hand with the gun not to the man who was still writing at his study in the dead of night, the man whose family lay in pieces below him, but to Its own head.

          He pulled the trigger.

          This is how my family died.

          This is how I died.

 


End file.
